


On A Gathering Storm

by OwnerOfAllTears



Category: Peaky Blinders (TV)
Genre: F/M, Mentions of Blood, idk what even is this, is not even fluff, it just exists, it just is, one cuss word, whatever it is
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-09
Updated: 2020-06-09
Packaged: 2021-03-04 04:35:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,175
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24617680
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OwnerOfAllTears/pseuds/OwnerOfAllTears
Summary: You are the only one who could help him
Relationships: Tommy Shelby/Reader, Tommy Shelby/You
Comments: 1
Kudos: 61





	On A Gathering Storm

The rain hammered your windows impetuously, while the wind crept in through the crooked windowpane of the kitchen, spreading gelid wafts all over your home. There was a raging fire in the hearth near your bed, and several layers of bedding piled on top of your body. You could fight off the cold, but not a single thing in this world could drown the booming thunders reverberating across the house, and your curtains were too thin to keep out the flashes of light crossing the skies.

Rain was something you loved, the soft sound of water trickling over the leaves out in the backyard used to be a sound capable of lulling you to sleep back home. But there was nothing remotely relaxing or lulling about this storm, as if the wrath of Zeus himself had come crashing down on the people of Small Heath. This weather surely belonged into some biblical tale about the apocalypses, for no human being would survive out there exposed to the elements.

_Knock. Knock. Knock._

What was that? The sound could barely be heard above the deafening thunder, and for a moment you swore it must have been your imagination. No decent person would knock at your door at this time. Just as you were ready to close your eyes, having decided that your brain was playing tricks on you, the three knocks were heard again. Undoubtedly someone, surely with absolute disregard for manners or common sense, wanted to draw your attention at the ungodly hours of the night.

Well, now they had it.

The nerve some people had, you thought as you unwillingly dragged your body out of bed, quickly getting wrapped into a blue robe in hopes of maintaining some body heat. Your bare feet made muffled sounds on the floorboards as you headed for the door, a candle in one hand and a fire poker in the other. A rather unusual companion to greet a visitor, but you couldn’t know who was on the other side, and that was the closest thing to a weapon you owned. Setting the candle aside, your hand gingerly got the doorknob. Your original intention had been to open a smidge, enough to tell off the stranger and send them away. But that plan was shattered the second a body forced its way through the door, the intrusion so sudden you couldn’t even move out of the way. His body toppled over yours, the dead weight pushing you flat onto the ground. A wet, strong hand immediately covered your mouth.

The scream never made it to your lips.

All your strength was put into fighting the intruder, but he easily overpowered you with minimal effort. His hand gripped yours, forcing you to drop your pathetic weapon. Tears pricked your eyes, fear overtaking you as you considered all the bad things that could happen right now. Just as you inhaled deeply, ready to scream in hopes any of the neighbours would hear, a flash of lightning cut through the sky. Your foyer was bathed in white light, illuminating the face hovering above yours. Long eyelashes dripping with raindrops and pale lips trembling with cold. Skin drenched in blood. Breath coming out in quick, pained pants. His jet black hair falling messily over his forehead. The bluest eyes you had ever seen. A single whisper

_“(Y/N), I need help”_

~

Sometimes, it was better not to ask and just act. Even though questions piled up in your mouth and threatened to spill over any second. Starting with what the hell had happened to him? And why had he come to your place? You couldn’t even remember giving him your address, but of course they had their ways of knowing, the Peaky fucking Blinders. A small part of your mind was thankful, though, that he knew were you lived. You couldn’t even fathom what would have been of him if he had to find his way back to his own home like this.

Conversation was left out, both because your mind was still tucked between the sheets, and he didn’t seem in any condition to speak. After the initial scare, he had pulled both of your bodies to your feet, a hand wrapped around your arm as you controlled the trembling of your knees. Somehow, you pulled yourself together enough to guide Thomas into the nearest sofa, helping him peel off layer after layer of dripping clothes until he was left in just undershirt and trousers. Your hands trembled as you grabbed hold of his holster, handling the gun as if it was a hand grenade ready to blow.

Blood still coated his skin, and a gut wrenching feeling overcame you when you realized it was probably not all his own. Swallowing yet another question, you quickly tied an apron around your waist, and fetched clean towels and a basin with warm water. Kneeling in front of him, your careful hands washed off the sticky mess, gaze focused anywhere but his eyes. But he was looking right at you, his pale eyes fixed in your face. Dear Lord, that stare had your stomach fluttering nervously.

 _“How are you so calm? Most people would recoil at the sight of this much blood. While you are unfazed”_ Thomas finally broke the silence, his voice barely above a whisper, completely filling in the silence of the room. You two were basically strangers, yet you were treating him as if he was close kin. He was just the one who paid your salary every week, and you were just his barmaid, right? Yet, the way you traced your fingers down his skin, thumb brushing along his cheekbone to inspect a bruise, the softness of your hands and your sweet eyes… they did things to him that he liked a lot, and that worried him terribly.

 _“I was a nurse in the war”_ You quickly explained, your tone sounding as if you tried to defend your knowledge and actions. You hadn’t been a brave soldier risking your life, but still did your bit to help “ _Too young to serve in the front line so I was kept back in a convalescence home. Not as bloody as France but I saw enough, and learned enough. Worry not; you are in good hands Mr Shelby”_

A hum of acknowledgement was all you got as a reply. But it seemed the mentioning of France did something to him, his back tensing and jaw clenched tight. Or perhaps it was just the pain. After the grime had been wiped away you could assess the damage. Bruises, cuts, a flesh wound in the left side of his ribcage, and a bullet stuck in his bicep. You had a lot of work ahead and a lot of pain for him. Rummaging through your cupboards you found the bottle of good whiskey, along with a half empty cheap liquor you kept for medical purposes. Handing over the whiskey, you let Thomas take a few swigs before pouring liquor on the gash of his side. A guttural grunt made it past his gritted teeth. Oh boy and you were just starting.

 _“I won’t ask what happened. But someone really wanted to get you good”_ You hoped meaningless conversation would distract him enough as you finally sewed him up. Extracting the bullet had taken a great deal of whiskey, writhing, and cursing to the point you shoved a rag into his mouth to bite. Momentarily you feared the neighbours may hear him, every animalistic scream and grunt falling past the gag echoing in the battered walls of your home. Hell, they may have thought you were murdering someone.

 _“They made a fucking bad choice. And will pay dearly for it”_ Sweat beads ran down his body, despite the chilly atmosphere around them, while his breath came in laboured, heavy pants. His eyes found themselves wandering once more to you, with your tongue caught between your lips and eyebrows knitted in concentration. But what surprised him the most were your eyes. He had just bargained through your door in the dead of the night, bloodied and beaten up, practically throwing himself into your arms. You were bound to be scared, or angry; yet your eyes housed infinite _tenderness._

The last time someone looked at him with those eyes, his heart had been crushed.

The final stitch was added, and his injuries skilfully wrapped up in bandages. The wounds would need proper attention, and you highly doubted he’d take care of so himself. Thomas Shelby looked like the type of man who would deny the flu until he was collapsing on himself from the fever. And you weren’t about to let him hurt himself on his own carelessness.

 _“I’m gonna need you to come over every two days to check how you’re healing”_ You explained nonchalantly, an undertone in your voice suggesting you wouldn’t take a no for an answer. Your eyes were stern but caring, the worry poorly disguised in your expression _“I’ll take care of the stitches myself, so please don’t go around trying to undo them with your pocket knife”_

Opposing was clearly off the picture, and in all honesty, Tommy was far too exhausted to conjure a good argument, and far too eager to let himself be placed under your care. So for once, he did something only very few people had seen him do; he nodded like an obedient schoolboy and reached to grab his now dry coat, which you neatly hanged by the recently lit fireplace to dry along the rest of his clothes _“Thank you (Y/N), I’ll be on my way now”_ A pained groan escaped him as he tried to stand. Just behind him, the clock bells ticked 4 A.M.

_“The hell do you think you’re going, Mister?”_ Your hand was placed on his chest, gently pushing him down back onto the sofa. Looking up at a woman was not something Tommy was used to do, since usually he was the one hovering over them. Filthy thoughts flashed briefly through his mind, but of course that was not what you were thinking at the moment. _“I’m not letting you out at this hour, in this weather, so you can die of hypothermia halfway home. Off to sleep you are”_ This man rarely did a bidding that was not his own, but for the second time that night, Tom behaved like he was told and laid back down again.

You reached into your apron pocket and pulled out a vial filled with a clear liquid. Careful not to spill, you filled a tea spoon and offered it to him _“It’ll help you sleep through the pain. Trust me”_ Normally, Tommy would never accept a medicine unless he was tied down and the remedy forced down his throat. Let alone accept it from a stranger. But something in his heart told him you meant no harm, and your only intention was for him to spend a tranquil night. So he swallowed down the bitter liquid, rinsing off the taste with a swig of whiskey.

Your original intention had been to offer him your bed, partly because he is your boss, but mostly because he looked quite pitiful and in dire need of some good sleep. Yet by the time you had grabbed spare bedding from a cupboard, Thomas was peacefully asleep, laid out across your sofa with his feet hanging over one side. You considered waking him up, but the mix of exhaustion, whiskey, and the dosage of morphine had surely knocked him out cold. Placing a pillow under his head and tucking him in with blankets, new logs stuffed in the hearth to keep the fire burning, you hoped he could be comfortable enough to rest.

It was remarkable how different he looked now, asleep and with no worries or problems weighing down his shoulders. More relaxed, younger, happier; perhaps even more handsome. Lips slightly parted, with no cigarette smoke clouding his eyes, or worries clenching his jaw. The soft candlelight made his cheekbones more prominent, while his thick eyelashes casted shadows on his cheeks. This was a raw and natural Thomas Shelby. A hint of a smile tugged the corners of your lips as you smoothed back his soft hair _“Good night Mr Shelby”_

_~_

The next morning, you grudgingly dragged yourself from bed, each fibre of your being urging you to catch up on the sleep you had missed. The storm had cleared, only pale clouds now covering the skies. Upon reaching your living room, you found the sofa to be empty, with the bedding and pillows carefully folded and piled on a chair. If it hadn’t been for the wet patches in the floorboards and the empty bottle of whiskey, you could have sworn it had all been a dream.

Into your kitchen, you found something in the table that you definitely didn’t have the night before. A few bills held under the bottle of morphine, and a note scribbled in perfect blue ink

_“You can call me Tommy”_


End file.
